Chapter Text
The coffee machine came to life with the crackling and bubbling of water as it heated up. Before long, the rich, dark aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as pitch-brown liquid cascaded through the filter, collecting steadily in the clear glass pot below. With meticulous precision, the key grip carefully set two pristine paper cups on the countertop—one destined for them and the other set aside for the host. They tore open two sugar packets, letting the fine, white crystals cascade into their cup, counting each addition as if it were a small treasure. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Once satisfied with the amount, the key grip tossed the empty packets into the nearby trash bin, a few stray grains of sugar tumbling down in a delicate shower, glinting like tiny diamonds against the surface below. The host preferred his morning brew unsweetened and undiluted, so the key grip left his well enough alone.
As the coffee brewed, speculations about the host’s preference swirled in the key grip’s mind. Logically, it’s a mere preference and nothing more. They recalled muted conversations around the water cooler, where whispers and murmurs painted a vivid picture of the enigmatic showman cloaked in shadow.
Some colleagues proposed that the host’s affinity for a bitter brew had a method behind it. Perhaps, they mused, the intense flavor and the sharp jolt of caffeine woke him more effectively than either element could achieve alone. After all, the host often lingered in his office after sunset, planning, brainstorming, and writing. Late-night cleaners occasionally spotted him, pacing the shadows in silence, muttering incomprehensible ideas under his breath.
Others conceptualized theories that extended beyond the practical. They speculated that his taste for harsh realities extended into his literal taste for coffee. The host’s stories often culminated in an intense dialogue between himself and the protagonist. While laden with elaborate theatrics, these exchanges revealed a deeper layer of cynicism steeped in contempt. Each phrase seemed carefully crafted to evoke strong emotions, yet beneath the surface lurked a palpable bitterness. Did the caffeinated bitterness reflect his outlook on life?
A soft stillness enveloped the room as the coffee machine finally fell silent. The key grip grasped the pot and pulled it from the hot receptacle, sending a solitary droplet cascading onto the heated plate below, where it sizzled and evaporated with a faint hiss. They poured the freshly brewed coffee into the two waiting cups, the rich, dark liquid swirling as it filled the vessels. The sugary grains danced in their cup and dissolved amid the steam, melding seamlessly with the scalding brew. While speculating had its appeal, the showrunner probably just preferred his coffee black for no deeper reason than liking the taste.
With a swift motion, the key grip snatched up two lids and covered the showman’s cup before securing a lid over their own. The key grip picked up their cup, its warmth seeping into their palm. Usually, one left the host’s coffee in place so he may emerge from his shaded sanctum and snatch it once the break room emptied, slinking back into the shadows before anyone could glimpse him. For a man who thrived in the spotlight, he loathed others seeing him.
No show would air that day, so the key grip had little to do currently. They may as well save the showman a trip down from his office; it was the least they could do for all the improvements he’d made since joining the team.
The key grip reached out for the showman’s cup, and just as their fingers grazed the warm surface, a gloved hand shot out like a striking snake and snatched the cup away. Momentarily stunned, the key grip stood frozen. They quickly regained their composure, pivoting to identify the audacious thief who had so brazenly snatched the showrunner’s morning drink.
Their thoughts froze as they spotted none other than the man himself.
The showrunner wore a sleek black zip-up jacket adorned with intricate red circuitry lines. These lines wound and twisted across the fabric, merging into an abstract visage hinting at a mysterious face. A deep crimson hood draped over his head, casting shadows and further obscuring his features. He brought the cup to his lips, tilting his head back as he took a long sip of coffee. His other hand clutched his black mask marked with the same vivid red circuitry. After a sip, the showrunner affixed his mask to his face, shrouding his identity entirely. Then, and only then, did he glance in the key grip’s direction.
As their masked gazes locked, the showrunner leaned slightly to one side. A glimmer of mischief danced in his eyes, barely peeking through his veneer. His shoulders jumped as a sharp yet muted laugh escaped him as he faintly twirled his cup, creating a spiral of steam that curled upward.
Then, the same theatrical voice the key grip had only heard from videos and speakers emerged behind the mask. “No one is going to believe you.”
As quickly as he appeared, the showrunner fled the scene, offering a two-fingered salute before vanishing around the corner. The key grip wrapped their fingers tightly around the warm paper of their coffee cup, the steam rising in delicate tendrils that danced in the air before dissipating. They watched the corner where the showrunner had just disappeared, unable to pull their gaze away. In all their years on set, the key grip had hardly ever encountered the host face-to-face. Why would they? They blended in with all the other key grips and gaffers, and such mundane jobs never needed direct contact with the showrunner. Spotting the masked showman was like spotting a mythical creature, losing sight of it before you could snatch a photo.
Such a casual appearance yielded two explanations. Option one, the showrunner slept well and woke up with the energy to foster a good day. Option two, he hadn’t slept at all and lacked the energy to care if anyone saw him. Differentiating the two possibilities would be futile, so the key grip wouldn’t bother trying.
The key grip adjusted their posture and mechanically strode from the break room into the quiet halls of the early morning. One thing stood undisputed: no one was going to believe them.